Retribution
by AngelSF
Summary: What if there is a copycat? Just a thought . . . This is my first story, please be as nice as possible.
1. Sunday

_Retribution_

A Murder Mystery

Written By:

Atra Angelo

Sunday 

_Thud, thud, thud._

The early morning silence was broken by a police officer knocking on the door of an old, but well cared for, farmhouse. It was an ungodly early hour in the morning, but there was a good reason he had come. The man who lived in this house always came into town on Friday for groceries- you could even set your watch to him. It wouldn't seem that odd now, except that every Friday for the last year he had come in at precisely eight a.m. to get groceries- and always with the same greeting of 'So how is everyone this fine morning?'

All the people in town had grown to respect and trust him. They knew him by name, and he knew all of theirs. Even the police officers in town knew him. They had learned of his time with the NYPD and they always wanted to hear about it. He never told much, and he always seemed to want to keep that part of his life to himself. After a while, the lady who owned the local grocery store knew his order and had it ready for him when he would come in.

He hadn't shown up on Friday, causing everyone to wonder what was going on. When he didn't show up on Saturday, they got really worries but didn't want to go to his house just yet in case he was 'entertaining' a female guest from the city. When he didn't come in for his normal cup of coffee at 5:30 on Sunday morning, they sent the rookie cop to his house to make sure he was okay. No one expected anything out of place, but they would rather be safe than sorry.

"Anyone home?" the twenty-one year old, rookie officer called, knocking louder. "Hello? William?"

He tried the doorknob and it turned without resistance, the door softly squeaking as it swung open on its hinges. The officer stepped through the open door and into the dark living room. He had a feeling down in his gut that something was wrong, and drew his gun. He stepped in cautiously and scanned the large living room/kitchen/dining room.

"William, are you home?" There was no answer and nothing looked out of place or strange, but there was an odd trip, trip, tripping sound coming from upstairs- like water dripping from a nozzle.

The police officer made his way up the stairs and again scanned the hall for the presence of anyone. He went through the first door on his right and stopped short upon seeing the room. He fumbled for his police radio, dropping it before finally turning it on, and quickly called in to dispatch.

"Dispatch, this is unit three requesting ambulance assistance and police backup at the farmhouse on the west side of town, over," he was almost to the point of hyperventilation by the time he made the call.

"Roger unit three, what is your status?"

"I have a DB here, and it looks like we have a homicide," he breathed. Something looked really familiar about the scene, but he couldn't put his finger on it as he scanned the room until . . . "Call the NYPD," he said into his radio. "Tell them it appears we've got a 'John Doe' copycat. They'll get here quick."

"Ambulance and police assistance are on their way. They should be arriving in ten minutes," dispatch told him. "And I'll call and let them know about the copycat. Out."

"What happened here Lieutenant?" asked Detective Chriseyda Jackson, ducking under the yellow crime scene tape as she stepped into the house and looked around.

As the police officers on the scene looked up at her, it was instantly clear to all of them that she was the Detective from New York. She had the air of confidence that only a city girl could have, though she couldn't be classified as a girl. She looked about mid-thirties, tall, and fair skinned with dark brown hair, and sharp, violet eyes- the color of amethyst. She was dressed in black slacks and a dark purple shirt. The gray trench coat she was wearing only emphasized her height and sleekness. She carried a bag slung over her shoulder, which rested on her hip slightly behind her. The gun holster and badge on her hip, the only indication she was a cop.

"Name of the deceased- William Summerset, he was a former NYPD Detective wasn't he?" He didn't wait for her response before continuing. "Apparently, he opened the door to someone and then they killed him. There are no signs of forced entry, so we figure he must have known who the person was or at least have invited them in," said the Lieutenant as he matched pace with her.

"Could he have had a spare key that the killer might have known about?" Chriseyda asked as she looked around the living room for signs of a struggle. There were none.

"I don't think so," said the lieutenant. "We found the key under the mat and it looked as though it hadn't been moved in a while. There was dust on it and around it, no fingerprints, no blood, nothing to suggest it had ever been used before."

"Thank you lieutenant," said Chriseyda walking past him, her shoes softly clicking on the hard wood floor.

They walked through the living room. "Strangely enough," he kept talking. "This is the same M.O. of a guy that died a year ago. My brother even saw him die."

"John Doe- I got the call. That's why I'm here," Chriseyda nodded absently as she stopped behind the couch, snapping on a pair of crime scene gloves and pulling her own personal, crime scene camera from the bag slung over her shoulder. "It just doesn't make any sense. He _did_ die- a year ago today actually, so this copycat has vengeance on his- or her- mind. Which is odd considering Doe did it to make a social point- you would think the copycat would do the same."

"Every psychopath is different," said the lieutenant with a shrug. "Which is good for us. Then we can pin the person down easier."

"If the conditions are right," said Chriseyda as she continued her slow walk around the bottom level of the house. She pulled a camera out of her side bag, ready to take pictures of anything that caught her eye- just for her own reference.

She made her way through the living room, stopping to inspect the coffee table and couch. The Saturday newspaper was neatly folded and lying on the table next to the remote for the 24" TV. The couch looked neat, all the throw pillows were in place and fluffed to perfection. She walked around, taking a picture of the dartboard hanging on the wall. It seemed odd because there were no darts to be found. _A clue,_ she thought as she snapped off a few more pictures, before something else caught her eye- a switchblade lying on the table to the left of the board. _Not a clue, just his version of darts?_ She took a breath, letting it out slowly as she turned her attention on the kitchen.

The kitchen was even more meticulously kept than the living room. The floors looked as though they had been cleaned, but not recently- maybe a day or two before. There was one plate, cup, and fork in the sink- he obviously had not been entertaining anyone. Or if he had, the person had made sure to clean up after himself.

The two main rooms out of the way, Chriseyda turned her attention to her journey upstairs. The stairs themselves were clean and looked polished and well cared for. They weren't slick as she expected them to be and she made her way slowly up, making sure to use the sides of the stairs.

She was snapping pictures of the stairs and the landing as she got to the top. As she looked around the landing, her eyes took in everything- there wasn't anything that seemed out of place. The whole house seemed to be in meticulous order- strange considering the type of murder that had reportedly taken place. But she knew it could be helpful too. Maybe they'd be able to spot abnormalities more easily- if there were any to spot in the first place.

To her left was an open area that was set up like a study- every book in order on the shelves, and the papers on the desk in neat stacks. To her right was a short hall leading to a door, presumably a guest bedroom. She took pictures of everything- she knew, in her line of work, it could mean making or breaking a case.

"He's in there," said the Lieutenant, looking up from his notepad and pointing down the hallway, as she made her first walk through.

"Lieutenant," she said pointing to his pad of paper, "I want these stairs dusted for fingerprints, footprints, shoe prints, anything that we could match to the killer. Make sure you have the shoe prints of all the officers who have already used the steps to make sure that you can eliminate them. Also, I want luminol used on the stairs and railings. Check the kitchen too. This killer could have dripped blood anywhere or started the attack somewhere else. Be thorough, we don't know where the killer could have gone?"

"Yes ma'am," said the Lieutenant, jotting down the note quickly. He pulled out his walkie-talkie and barked a quick order. He turned back to her and his eyes asked the question _'Do you need anything else from me or are you finished giving me orders on my turf?'_ He didn't seem all that happy that New York City had sent a Detective to take over the case from them, but at the same time he was willing to give her every courtesy possible.

Chriseyda turned and headed toward the bedroom door. She could smell death in the air as she neared the room at the end of the hall. She took a deep breath and put her handkerchief over her nose and mouth- never hurt to come prepared. She stepped into the small room and was faced with a spectacle of a crime scene. She felt the wind get knocked out of her as she looked from the bloody bed to the word above the bed written in the victims blood- Sloth.

"You have got to be kidding me. This can't truly be happening again," she whispered under her breath. She had been told it was a John Doe copycat, but she wasn't expecting anything this accurate. She turned to the cop, who was still standing at the top of the stairs taking notes, "Call NYPD and tell them to get me copies of the case files from the John Doe cases. I have to read _everything_. I want them on my desk by the time I get back to my office."

"Alright Detective," he called from the study, his tie covering his mouth and nose. He apparently was not about to come into the room.

Chriseyda stood in the doorway and assessed the scene again. She took pictures of everything around the room. As with the rest of the house, there was nothing out of place, nothing that was messed up- other than the blood splattered all over. Whoever was duplicating these murders knew a lot about the originals. She needed those files, and she needed them thirty minutes ago- before she even set foot through the front door. She had to know just as much and more than the killer about those murders.

The coroner from the local PD walked in with his medical bag. He nodded to Chriseyda and then walked cautiously over to the bed. He checked for a pulse and for temperature. He obviously didn't find a pulse but he got a temperature and shook his head.

"He's dead Detective."

"Thank you Doctor," she said with a small nod, wanting to be sarcastic but knowing better and holding her tongue.

He looked up at her from across the room. "You better get whoever did this Detective. We loved this guy like he was one of our own. He knew all of our names- he was like our brother in arms. We heard about the case that happened last year. Supposedly this is a copy-cat of that one, right?"

When Chiseyda nodded, he continued, "Get this bastard for us. We can't have another of these Bible-pounders terrorizing the citizens of this state . . . or country."

"I know," she said shaking her head tiredly. "I better go. I need to continue my walk through and check on the progress, and then I have to go and study up on what happened originally. Reviewing the old case files might give me a better perspective on what's happening now."

"You may want to talk to the other Detective who was on the case a year ago," he suggested. "He might want to know what happened to his former partner.

"That won't be easy," Chriseyda sighed. "I highly doubt that Detective Mills would be willing to relive the atrocities he suffered. I don't blame him for that, and I'm really hesitant to tell him what happened to Detective Summerset."

"It might be difficult, but it is something that has to be done," said the coroner. "He doesn't have any family still living; and he told us several times that Detective Mills was the closest thing to family that he had."

"Even so," said Chriseyda, "I'm going to have to approach this delicately- if I do it at all."

The coroner shrugged, as if to say i_t's your call_, and went back to analyzing the body lying on the bed. Chriseyda watched for a few more minutes, sickened by the precision that this new killer had already displayed. She sighed- knowing there was nothing else she could do here- and turning, she walked downstairs to get a full report on what had happened so far.

"Detective Jackson," came the voice of the lieutenant who had accompanied her around the house earlier. He came up from the den on her right. "We found a film canister dropped in with his magazines and newspapers, but we didn't find any cameras- or for that matter, any signs that he took pictures at all."

"Do you still have it here, or have you sent it off to be analyzed?" she asked.

"We have it right here," he said handing the canister, inside a plastic bag, to her. He still gave her the look that said he didn't like her being on his turf. But he was still willing to give her the flack she needed, due to the authority she held over him in the present situation.

"Thank you," she nodded as she took the bag from him. She gave it a cursory once over to make sure there was no evidence that could be compromised. Once she was assured that she wouldn't lose any evidence she turned her attention to the canister itself.

There were no signs of fingerprints, but they also hadn't dusted it yet. It was a 35mm film canister, which suggested that whoever it was might have a professional camera. They might possibly even be a professional photographer. She sighed- that was one lead that would be a pain in the butt to have to follow. There was nothing distinctive about the canister- no label, no date, just plain black with a gray lid.

Chriseyda sighed and handed the bag back to the lieutenant. "This is going to get real ugly, real fast," she muttered under her breath.

"What?" he asked as he took the bag back from her.

"If I don't catch a break, I'm screwed," she said out loud. "I won't solve this thing quickly enough, and the Chief will be on my butt. It's going to get real ugly, real quick."

The lieutenant nodded and went about putting together the rest of the report that he had to this point. "We haven't found any fingerprints yet either. We recovered some shoe prints, but they are pretty flat and non-descript. It will be hard to track them, but we'll try anyways. We haven't found anything else, but we'll let you know as soon as something comes up."

"Thank you," said Chriseyda. She turned to walk away just in time. Her phone vibrated at her side and she quickly answered it with "Detective Jackson."

"Jackson," the voice of Chief Johnson was harsh in her ear. "What have you found?"

"Sir, the police here have found footprints and they are sending them to the lab as we speak. There are no fingerprints, and there is a film canister they found mixed in with his magazines and newspapers. We didn't find any cameras, so we are assuming that the killer dropped it or planted it here."

"You don't have anything else?" he sounded pissed off.

"No sir," she said, she was exhausted and she really didn't feel like explaining this to him right now. "I'll be heading back in a few hours- after I'm sure that all the possible evidence has been collected."

"Leave in three hours," he said. "If you don't, I will have you suspended. Do you understand?"

Chriseyda was sure her boss was majorly PMSing, but she couldn't be disrespectful. She couldn't bare the thought of being taken off this case; it was exactly the chance she wanted to prove herself to the arrogant, stuck-up, condescending, pig-headed men in her department. She wanted to show them that she was capable of solving a case that would baffle everyone else, only she knew she would be baffled by this one too.

"Are you listening to me Jackson?" the Chief's voice cracked her thoughts.

"I'm sorry sir, I was thinking about the case," she said quickly. She heard him huff and he was about to repeat himself so he quickly inserted, "I understand. I'll be leaving in three hours."

Chriseyda sighed and put down her mug of lemon and honey tea. That made four cups that she had gone through, and she was only half way through the files on the last serial killings. She sat up straighter and stretched out her aching back muscles- hearing and feeling her vertebrae pop in the process. She uncrossed her legs and stretched them out in front of her. Sitting on the floor for two and a half hours wasn't how she planned on spending her night. There had to be something she was missing.

She flipped through a few more pictures of the previous crime scenes and then she started flipping through the pictures she had taken of the new crime scene. Something wasn't adding up, they were too similar, too perfect. No one could have done that kind of a job, unless they had seen the first crime scenes. She grabbed her coat as she hurried out the door and down to her car. She knew what she had to do, even if she didn't want to do it.

"David Mills?" Chriseyda asked the man who opened the door. He nodded. "My name is Detective Chriseyda Jackson, may I come in?"

David looked at her for a moment with his blood-shot eyes, and then moved out of the door way so she could get through. She stepped in and he shut the door, walking past her toward the living room.

"I'm sorry to come like this," said Chriseyda, "but I have to ask you about the murders that took place a year ago. The ones from the John Doe case."

She could see him stop and stiffen as her words sunk in. He shook his head and walked into the living room and toward his armchair.

"I need to know if you can help me," she said again.

"You are asking the wrong person Detective Jackson," said David Mills as he sat back in his armchair, swiping the glass of whiskey off the coffee table. "Detective Summerset was on that case too, and he wouldn't mind reliving it the way I would. Drink?"

"No, thank you," she shook her head and held up her hands. "I can't ask him Detective Mills," she said with a sigh as she sat precariously on the edge of his sofa.

"I'm not a Detective anymore," he snapped at her, slamming his drink on the arm of the chair, some of the whiskey sloshing over the side. "I was 'honorably discharged' after I killed that psycho, John Doe, for murdering my wife and child." He jumped out of his chair and paced the living room. "The answer is still no by the way. Go find, and ask, Summerset."

"I have," Chriseyda repeated more firmly, looking at him unflinchingly. "I have found him, but he can't help me anymore."

"Why not?" demanded David, turning to glare at her. He made a move to scoop up the abandoned glass from the arm of the chair.

"Because he's dead," she said, plopping the pictures down on the table in front of him. David stopped still and turned a ghostly shade of white, his mouth hung open in shock. "And the word 'sloth' was written above his bed, as you can see. We have a copycat on the loose exactly one year to the day that John Doe started his murders. This murder was so accurate to his signature; I think that someone who saw the original scenes is behind this. There was nothing distinguishing about the scene, no fingerprints, non-descript shoe-prints, the blood and gore was reserved to the bedroom and most of it on the bed. It's too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence."

She stopped talking and just took a breath. The exhaustion was catching up with her and she suddenly just wanted to sleep. There was an awkward silence between them as David looked at the pictures and Chriseyda closed her eyes, resting them for the first time that day.

Finally, David looked up from the pictures in shock. He picked another one up and flung it back down after one look. "Gees," he said under his breath. "This thing can't just die can it?"

"We have to stop whoever it is," said Chriseyda. She opened her eyes to look directly at him. "We have to make it stop."

"You think we didn't try?" asked David. "We killed that SOB and now there's a copycat. There always will be a copycat. This thing will not die."

"We have to try," she pushed- They just had to try. "For the people of New York, we have to try."

"What do I care about the people of New York?" asked David, his voice slurring from exhaustion, pain, and alcohol. "Do you think they cared when my wife was raped and then beheaded by that maniac?"

"Then do it for your wife," said Chriseyda, trying to be the voice of reason above the voice of the whiskey. "Don't let her die for nothing. And more than that, don't let more innocent people have to suffer that way you did."

David stared at her for a long moment. He didn't know how to answer her; there were no words at all. He shook his head to clear his befuddled mind and then sighed; she was right, as hard as it was to admit, she was right. His wife couldn't die in vain. He couldn't allow another man to endure the pain of losing his wife and unborn child.

"Do you have the old files?" asked David, finally sitting down across from her and rubbing his eyes.

Chriseyda nodded and pulled the files from her trench coat pocket. "These are all of the case files with the pictures and descriptions of each crime scene," she said setting them down on the coffee table.

David looked at the files lying on the table, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then wearily picked them up. He began flipping through them slowly, each picture cutting into his memory deeper and deeper.

"Give me a day or two, Detective," he said rubbing his hand through his short hair. "I have to get reacquainted with these cases and think of some other ways to track this psycho."

Chriseyda nodded and stood up. "Take your time," she said. "I know it's not easy for you, and I'm sorry for having to bring you into this, but I don't know what else to do."

David gave an absent wave as he read through the file. Chriseyda put her head down with a tired sigh, and walked out the door.

Her mind was running on full speed. She now had Detective Mills on board to help her with tracking down this new killer. She didn't agree with calling him- or her, it was a possibility- a psycho like Mills did. This new murderer was a very methodical killing; well thought out and executed- just as Doe had been.

_Maybe a good night's sleep is what I need to see this case- or just any sleep at all_, she thought as she steered her car toward home. She stumbled into her apartment building and down the hall. She stepped into her immaculate apartment, which looked as though it came straight out of a decorating magazine's centerfold. She didn't seem to notice or care as she dropped her bag on the floor, her keys on the table next to the door, and kicked her shoes off into the corner of her living room.

She was barely even awake enough to brush her teeth and wash her face, and the exhaustion seeped into ever part of her body. She walked, or rather stumbled, into her bedroom, collapsing on her bed, fully clothed and fell asleep instantly- dreaming of what would come in the next week.

Her dreams would never compare . . .

11


	2. Monday

Monday 

Chriseyda was awoken when her cell phone blasted 'Dies Irea' from the nightstand next to her head. She rolled over, fumbling with the blanket she had gotten wrapped up in while she slept, and grabbed the phone off her nightstand. She was still half asleep as she answered it, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She listened for a moment and then jumped out of bed.

"I'll be right in," she said, grabbing a green shirt and a pair of black Capri pants from her closet. "Has Detective Mills called yet?"

"Get to the station now Jackson. He has asked to be temporarily reinstated to help you with this case," said Police Chief Thompson. She couldn't quite tell from the tone in his voice what he thought about this idea, but she didn't care.

"I'm on my way," Chriseyda said, scrambling to get on a different pair shoes. She hung up the phone and finished getting her shoes on. She raced out of her apartment, grabbing her field bag and keys, and drove- rather quickly- to work. She raced into the station and up to her desk. Detective Mills met her there.

"We have another one on our hands," he said with out missing a beat. "Let's go. You drive."

"Okay," she said as she followed him out of the station. After a few minutes of silence she couldn't help herself. "Do you have any ideas about the case?" she asked.

"All I know is that John Doe had no family that we knew of. He was independently wealthy, and we had no idea what his name really was," said David. "This new killer could be any number of Bible-pounders who idolize the psycho. Do you have any ideas?"

"I don't know," she said shaking her head. "I'm not even sure where to begin on this case. This person isn't doing things in the same order, but the scenes are so similar it's scary. Where are we going?"

"Manhattan," said David.

"Who is it?"

"An actor, D-lister really- I've never heard of him," said David. "Apparently, lust was written by him. I hope you don't have a weak stomach, the officers on the scene said it's messy. Please tell me you don't get queasy easily."

"Don't worry about me Detective Mills; I'll be fine," said Chriseyda. "I didn't get where I am today being a pussy."

"Nice attitude," said David, not sounding particularly convicted in his praise. "Pull in here," he said pointing to a parking lot.

Detective Mills was out of the car as soon Chriseyda parked. He was halfway to the apartment complex by the time she had gotten out of the car. She raced to catch up with him. They took the stairs, due to forensic scientists spraying luminal and dusting for prints in the elevators.

They entered the apartment suite and both immediately stopped at the sight of blood sprayed all over the far, living room wall and furniture. The word 'lust' was written in big letters on the carpet in front of the man, who was splayed out in the middle of the room.

"Wow," breathed Chriseyda. "This _is_ brutal."

David didn't say anything; he just walked around the room, looking for any clues at all that might have been left.

"Detective Jackson," he said finally. "Can you please take notes of everything in the room for me? Look for anything that might otherwise be over-looked, like the third scene from the last year."

"Alright," she said, taking the camera from her field bag.

Mills looked at her skeptically. He didn't say a word, but his eyes seemed to ask her why she had a camera on her just like that- and yet at the same time he didn't seem to care either as long as the job got done.

"I always carry one, just in case I'm the only person on the scene, and it's a lot more reliable than notes. If it's about to rain I need pictures before the evidence washes away. It's come in handy on several of my cases." She knew she was blathering on, but her nerves and lack of sleep were getting the better of her. She knew this case would not end up well, and that scared her.

"Detective Jackson."

"Yes?" she asked.

"Be quiet and do your job." He wasn't trying to be mean, just blunt enough to get her to stop talking and do what she was supposed to do- and she knew it.

"Sorry," she said. She started taking pictures of the room. Everything on the tables and on the bookshelves got photographed. This place wasn't nearly as spotless as Summerset's home had been, but it seemed pulled together. Chriseyda supposed that the maid may have had a week off at least. She would have to check that lead later.

Chriseyda started at the outer perimeter of the room and worked her way inward. She finally got to the body and walked around it a few times before lifting her camera.

"Must have been planning for a hot date," said Chriseyda, indicating the unopened champagne chilling in the bowl, the two glasses, and the box of expensive European chocolates set out on the table. She snapped off a few pictures from every angle. "That's expensive champagne, and those chocolates don't come very cheap either. He must have really wanted to impress whomever he was expecting."

"The question is," said David, looking at the table. "Who was he expecting, did they make it here, and did they leave alive?"

Chriseyda shrugged at the rhetorical question and continued with her investigation of the scene- turning her attention to the body. As she began taking pictures of the body, she noticed something that seemed out of place. "Detective Mills!" she called. "Look what he has in his hands."

David came to the middle of the room and knelt down beside the body. He looked at the man's hand and then at the pool of blood on the floor under him, and cringed. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Yes," she said simply. "It most certainly is. That's probably why the word 'Lust' was written above him. He was given his 'punishment,' so to speak, for lusting."

"That's probable, but let's not jump to any conclusions," said David. "We'll have the coroner come to his own conclusion."

"What do we do then?" asked Chriseyda.

"When you finish your roll of film, take it to the crime scene lab and have it developed. We'll look it over when you're ready."

The coroner walked in and looked over the body. She rolled it over to get a better view of the hands and face.

"I'll get right on this," said Chriseyda, indicating the camera in her hand. She finished her roll of film in the next couple minutes and turned to leave. She turned back with a sudden thought. "I think I'm also going to try and interview his friends, family, his maid- because he obviously has one, the doorman, and anyone who might have seen the person who came in last night. You want in?"

"No," said Mills, shaking his head and looking around the scene. "I think I'll stick around here for a while and then head back to the station to look over the files again."

"Suit yourself," said Chriseyda with a shrug. "You'll probably get more than I will." She turned, grabbing her field bag and heading out the door. She was already punching a number into her cell phone as she went.

David just sighed and turned back to the scene at hand.

"Detective Mills," Chriseyda said as she walked into the office she was sharing with David.

"What is it?" he sounded frustrated and tired.

"I have the pictures that I took of the crime scene back," she said. "I can tell there's not much to them. We're kind of empty handed here. The interviews weren't particularly enlightening either. The maid's on vacation in Hawaii, and has been since Sunday morning. The doorman didn't see anything, but there was also a five minute gap when he went to go use the restroom. The two friends I talked to said that it could have been any number of women he's had one night stand with."

"And his ex-wife?" asked David, looking up from his file.

"She has been in Paris with her fiancé, for her first fashion show, since last Friday. She isn't scheduled to be back until this Friday."

"She could have hired someone," David suggested.

"That would be one interesting coincidence," said Chriseyda. "I don't see it happening like that, but it could be. So what, she hired this person to off her ex and kill six other people just to cover her tracks?"

"Or she hired the person to kill her ex when she heard the there is a copycat on the loose, just to cover her tracks," David said. "At this point, I'm not ruling anything out."

"But how could she have heard about the copycat?" asked Chriseyda. "We haven't mentioned that the killing yesterday was a copycat- in fact we haven't given out any details at all yet."

David shrugged. "I'm not sure. John Doe disguised himself as a paparazzo to get information on where we were in the case. Maybe this guy is doing the same thing."

"Fair enough," said Chriseyda nodding. "So where do we go from here.

"The coroner's office," said David.

Five minutes later, Chriseyda and David were standing together in the cold depths of the coroner's office. They were looking at the body laying on the table covered in a white sheet.

"What can you tell us about this one?" asked David.

"Well," said the coroner picking up the file with a sigh. "He was beaten pretty badly. The bruises didn't come out fully until about half way through the autopsy. Then he was forced to cut of his own penis with scissors. He got about half way through the first time and probably passed out from the pain. The killer revived him and made him finish what he started. My guess, he passed out twice- that means he had to make three snips. He bled out and died and then was posed the way you found him, with the scissors in one hand and his penis in the other.

"This guy was known all over as a philanderer and, during his ever so brief marriage, as an adulterer. He was cleared of four charges of rape. Someone was definitely out to make sure this guy died by losing the one thing he used the most, and I'm not referring to his acting talent. Judging by the bruising and lividity, I'd say he's been dead less than twenty-four hours."

"And you're sure of the cause of death?" asked Chriseyda.

"Pretty confident," said the coroner.

"Anything you recovered from the body?" asked David. "Hairs, fingerprints, anything at all?"

"I'm afraid not Detective," said the coroner. "I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, but that's all I have."

"Thanks," said David. He turned and left the room with Chriseyda on his heels. "You better go home and get some sleep while you can," he advised. "This week will be the worst week of your life."

Chriseyda nodded and followed him out to the parking lot, each of them getting into their respective vehicles and heading for home.

Chriseyda pulled into her apartment parking lot and made her way up to her apartment. She walked in, this time paying more attention as to where her things landed, setting her keys in the basket next to the door, her field bag below the table, and her cell phone on the coffee table in the living room.

She picked up the shoes she had kicked away the night before and put them into her closet. She sighed as she undressed and put on a plain white tank top and a pair of blue, New York and Company shorts. She pulled her hair up and twisted it, clipping it to the back of her head and out of her face. She made her way to her kitchen, deciding that she needed to eat if she was going to keep her strength and her health up.

She was rooting through her refrigerator when she hit pay dirt. She pulled out a Tupperware container full of pasta that she had made the week before. She pulled the top off and took a whiff- it was still good. She smiled and threw the container in the microwave. As it was cooking, she put a pot of water on the stove to boil for her tea. She pulled a largish, green mug from the cupboard and a box of tea from the other cupboard. She opened the box and breathed in the aroma of peppermint tea.

She was just getting her tea ready when the microwave alarm went off. She pulled the pasta out and grabbed a fork. She poured the boiling water into her mug and then took both the tea and the pasta into the living room. She set both down on the coffee table- using a coaster for both, and then walked over to turn on her stereo. She walked back to the couch, grabbing a blanket on the way, before plopping down on the couch and getting comfortable. She allowed her mind to run wild, not wanting to drive herself crazy with the case, as she ate.

She finished her meal without even noticing that she was eating. Her eyes were unfocused, as if she were seeing something or remembering something from her past. She suddenly blinked and looked around. She shook her head and sighed, placing the Tupperware container back on its coaster on the coffee table. She finished her tea and then leaned back, listening to the soothing sounds of the music floating around her living room.

It was the most relaxed she had allowed herself to be in the last two days. Maybe more than that, she considered. She had been running herself raw for a while now and it was about time she took a breather, even if it _was_ in the middle of the most important case of her life.

She curled up and dozed off on her couch, pulling the blanket close in around her shoulders and getting comfortable. She didn't know how long she slept, only that her phone was going off. She rolled over and grabbed the phone off the coffee table, answering it on the fifth ring. She was wide awake within seconds, throwing the blanket away and jumping up from the couch. She shivered, not realizing how cold her apartment had become, and ran down the hall to her room. She changed into something warm and raced for the door.

"_I envied you and your life. I went over to your house this morning. I met your wife. I tried to play husband, but that didn't work out. So I took a souvenir . . . her pretty head."_

_The smug, apathetic, and nonchalant look on his face enraged David. The gun in his hand trembled. As much as he tried to remain level headed, his anger- no his wrath- was getting the better of him. It wasn't just wrath though; it was pain, hurt, and loss- at the same time._

"_She pleaded for her life," Doe went on. "She pleaded for her life and the life of her unborn child." Summerset hit him._

_David stood stunned. Had he heard this madman right? She had never told him she was pregnant. The look on Summerset's face told him that it was true._

"_Oh," said Doe, casually. "He didn't know." He looked so self-satisfied, so cocky, so arrogant. It was more than David could take._

"_David don't do this," Summerset was saying, but David only heard part if it. "If you do this, he will win."_

_David knew it was true, but he didn't care. This maniac had killed his wife; his high school sweetheart. The woman he cared about more than his own life. Not only that, but he had killed their child- their innocent, unborn child. He had to pay for it. _

_David fired, hitting Doe in the head. He fell back, dead before he even hit the ground. That wasn't enough for David; he fired again and again and again- six shots in all. It was enough to appease him, but he still felt hallow inside, like someone had ripped out his heart. Someone had ripped out his heart; they had taken away his wife and child at the same time. And he could do nothing to stop it, he couldn't save them._

David woke up in a cold sweat. He tried to regain his breath and hold back his tears at the same time. He had been haunted by this nightmare every night for the last year. He couldn't shake it no matter how hard he tried. Some nights were worse than others, and lately, since hearing of Summerset's death, they had been worse than before.

He rolled himself out of bed and walked to the bathroom, throwing some cold water on his face and getting a drink. He had to stop this nightmare, but he didn't know how to do that. It was always there, staring him in the face.

When he was awake, he was alone in his bare apartment, staring at the empty walls. He didn't want to decorate- Tracy had always done that. Nor did he want to stare at the pictures of Tracy and himself smiling and laughing- back when life had been good.

When he closed his eyes it was worse. He could see the life that might have been. He could see his wife- his beautiful wife, Tracy- and he could see their children. Cute little blonde children with curly hair and bright blue eyes, playing on the swing set in the backyard, with the dogs keeping watch and protecting them. He could hear the children calling for him to push them on the swing set, to toss them in the air, to spin them, to play ball with them.

He shook his head to clear his thoughts. It was killing him to foster these images. That was a future that had been taken from him, and there was nothing he could do about that. He had to stay in the here and now or he would become one of those crazy people he had always promised himself he would never be.

His phone rang, thankfully pulling him from these thought, and he answered it. Listening for a few moments he simply said, "I'll be right there," and hung up.

He was dressed and out the door within moments, looking for any reason to get away from the oppression that an empty apartment brought.


	3. Tuesday

Tuesday 

The police officer at the door nodded, lifting the crime scene tape, as he admitted Detectives Mills and Jackson into the scene. It was five in the morning; the police were called by a neighbor who was irritated by the loud noises coming from the apartment. The police had responded and immediately called Mills and Jackson, as well as the coroner.

"This is an odd one," said the officer that met them three feet into the scene. "It's more bizarre than any of the other ones, from this case or the one a year ago."

Chriseyda followed David into the room and stopped in shock. The scene was indeed more bizarre than any of the other ones. Instead of being incredibly messy, it was noisy. The treadmill in the middle of the empty room was still on full speed and the body was dragging on the rolling tread. One of her hands was tied to the handlebars with metal wiring, which was cutting into her wrist and dropping blood onto the sweat panel of the machine. There was a bucket beside the treadmill, filled with vomit, as well as vomit splashed on the floor all around it. The woman was dripping with sweat and there were food and empty wrappers all around her.

"What happened here?" demanded David as the coroner stepped away from the body. The officers turned the machine off after they finished with the pictures and fingerprint gathering. Chriseyda had snapped on a pair of gloves and was walking around the room, trying to find anything that might help. She was snapping pictures of random things, so that if they missed anything they'd have references to look back at.

"Well," said the coroner. "It's definitely one of the strangest cases I've ever seen. Initial guess: she was fed while she was running. The machine was set to an extremely fast speed. She was probably fed constantly and, obviously, given no rest. She was both fed to death and worked to death. Probably died of heart failure. Until I can examine her more fully, that's all I can tell you."

"Detective Mills," said Chriseyda. "Look at this." She was snapping off pictures, when David walked up behind her. "Gluttony," she said finally. "Written in the ketchup and mustard from off a burger it looks like." She took a few more pictures for evidence and then took a swab of the material. She took a smear with her finger and smelled it. "Yeah," she cringed. "It's definitely burger grease and condiments. It's a familiar smell, but I can't place it right off."

"Why is it familiar?" asked David. "Don't all burger places smell the same?"

"I'm not sure," she said looking over her shoulder at him. "It's the smell of a place I've been to several times. Every place has a different smell. I'm just not sure which one this is. Maybe you can place it."

He took a whiff of the grease. "It is familiar," he agreed. "I can't place it either, but I have been there many times. Get it back to the lab for analysis. Make sure they know we need the results ASAP."

"Alright," said Chriseyda. "I'll do it myself."

"Hello?"

"Detective Mills, the pictures are ready. Whenever you get back, I'll be in my office."

"I'll be there in ten minutes," said David. "Then we can go to the coroners together and get her take on the situation."

David walked into her office eight minutes later, looking tired. He plopped down on a chair next to her desk.

"What have you got for me?"

"Well," she said with a sigh as she sat back and grabbed a sheet of paper off her desk. "Here's the break down on the grease from the burger. The finest meat brought here from Texas' best cattle ranches. Only two places around where the vic lives carries that kind of meat. And one of them is the place I've been to. We can go there and the other place and ask about who might have ordered a lot of burgers in either all at once or in two trips."

"And the pictures?" he asked.

"I had some of them enlarged to see writing more clearly, but I can't find anything out of place. There was the letter that prompted the woman to the apartment where she died. It was a letter, asking her to be part of a new diet and exercise program. She was promised to be paid fifty dollars per pound that she could shed in a one-month interval. She was lured in by the money."

"So other than the letter and the burger joints, we have nothing?" asked David.

"I'm not sure," said Chriseyda. "I've had the letter sent out for analysis; hair, fiber, fingerprints, the works. It should be back in about an hour."

"So why don't we go and see what the coroner has to say about our DB?" asked David. "She put a rush on it."

Chriseyda nodded and followed him out of the office.

Standing in the coroner's lab, looking at the mutilated body of the victim, Chriseyda and David looked at each other and sighed- so far, this case sucked majorly.

"Well," said the coroner. "This is also added to my list of the strangest cases I've ever seen. As I said initially, this woman was stuffed and then forced to run while she was continuously being fed. She threw up at least four times, but it didn't stop the killer. He just kept feeding her. I'd dare say that she was fed at least four-dozen burgers, probably more.

"It's obvious that she had not had much strenuous exercise for quite a while, and that's partially what killed her. She died of cardiac arrest. Judging from the size of her stomach, the swelling of the throat, and the stretch marks on the skin, she wasn't tortured very long. I would judge about two hours, three tops, before her heart finally gave out on her. Plus she was dead for about nineteen hours before you found her. That puts the beginning of the torture party at between nine and two yesterday afternoon."

"That's all?" asked David. "Nothing you found on the body?"

"No," said the coroner shaking her head. "I'm sorry Detective Mills. It's exactly the same as the other two."

"Don't worry about it," said David absently. "We're coming up empty everywhere we turn on this case. It's got to change sometime though, right?"

"Let's hope," said Chriseyda quietly from his side. "For all our sakes."

"Thank you doctor," he said nodding to the coroner and then turned and left without another word. Chriseyda nodded her thanks to the coroner and then followed him.

"You're welcome," said the coroner after them and then stored the body in the freezer bay.

"I'm sorry Detectives," said the young manager of the burger joint. "Yesterday was one of the busiest days we've had in about a month."

"Well," said David. "Did anyone come in more than one time? Ordering dozens of burgers, probably about six dozen all together?"

"Yeah there was one guy," said the manager. "I thought maybe he was just throwing a party of one kind or another. This guy came in, real skittish, and ordered three-dozen burgers with ketchup and mustard. About an hour later he came in and ordered another three dozen burgers."

"Anything distinguishing about this guy?" asked David.

"He paid with a credit card both times," said the manager. "I'll go get the recipes for you."

"Thank you," said David. They waited for a few moments and then the guy came back with the receipts. "We'll get these back to you as soon as possible."

"No need," said the manager, shaking his head and holding up his hands, palms facing them. "Those are copies, you can keep them."

"Thanks," said David with a nod as he stashed the receipts in his pocket. He and Chriseyda turned and left the burger joint.

"Time to run a name and record search, huh?" asked Chriseyda as she sat down and swung her legs into the passenger side of David's car.

"Absolutely," said David. "This is the first break we've had. I know we won't find the actual guy, but we are one step closer. In fact, the guy who got the burgers is probably already dead, but we are one step closer."


	4. Wednesday

Wednesday 

"We've got a match," said David stopping in the doorway to Chriseyda's office the next morning. "Former felon named Willis Smith. Arrested for forgery and stealing close to half a million dollars from fifteen different people."

"Greed," said Chriseyda, jumping up and grabbing her coat as she followed him out of the police station. "Let's go pick him up."

"He's already dead," said David as he got behind the wheel of his car. "The SWAT team is on its way, they'll be there a few minutes before us."

"So how does it play out?" asked Chriseyda.

"I'm not sure," said David. "This whole thing has been totally screwy. We'll either find him dead . . . or as close to death as possible."

"Move aside Detectives," yelled a member of the SWAT team that had already assembled at Willis Smith's house.

"They love this part of the job," said David rolling his eyes slightly to Chriseyda, who just nodded and watched the proceedings.

"One, two, three," yelled the Captain. At his mark, the door splintered and flew in as the team entered the house like a swarm of bees.

"Let's go," nodded David, taking off- gun in hand, into the house.

They entered the house and split off in two directions, following the two squads of SWAT. David followed the men heading toward the kitchen, family room, and garage, while Chriseyda followed the men heading toward the back side of the house- where all the bedrooms and living room was.

The team Chriseyda was following suddenly stopped, causing her to skid to a stop and almost bump into one of the officers. They slowly and cautiously moved into the room, instructing her to stay outside until they were sure it was secure. The leader of the team radioed to send David over. He was there within moments, standing beside Chriseyda, waiting for the all clear so they could enter.

"It's secure, Detectives," called one of the SWAT members. "We have a DB here."

Chriseyda was the first one into the room. She stopped short upon entering; a look of shock, horror, and disgust was plastered on her face. David walked into the room and stepped around her. He took in the scene and then turned to face her.

"Remind me to play poker with you when this thing is over," he said sarcastically.

"What?" she asked, snapping back into the moment.

"You have a terrible poker face," he said. "I could win quite a bit of money from you."

"I have a good poker face," she said as she scanned the scene. "When I need one," she added, after he raised his eyebrows at her. She walked around the room, scanning and taking pictures of everything before turning her attention to the body slumped in the middle of the room. David went straight to the body.

"Well this is definitely 'Greed,'" said David.

"Did the big bloody letters spell it out for you?" asked Chriseyda sarcastically, not turning to see the look on his face.

David sneered at her back and snapped, "No, actually the pound of flesh missing from his flank area and the scale gave me that idea. It's exactly like last year."

"I know," said Chriseyda, finally turning to face him. "I was just trying to relieve my own stress." She scanned the body and then got down for a closer look. "It looks like there is money stuck to him," she said, taking out her camera and snapping off a few pictures.

"Don't touch it until the coroner moves the body," demanded David. "I don't want some significant piece of evidence being thrown out due to a breach of protocol."

Chriseyda nodded and continued looking around the body. She stepped aside as the coroner and her assistant came in and bent over to examine the body. They finally shifted the body over, allowing the Detectives to see the chest and stomach of the man.

Chriseyda snapped on a pair of gloves and pulled a dollar off his chest and bagged it. "They tried to clot his blood with money?"

"It looks like it," said the coroner with a nod. "I'll know more in about three hours. I'll call you when the autopsy is finished." She lifted the man's eyelids and then opened his mouth. "There's something in his mouth," she said, grabbing the tweezers from her kit. She put them down into his mouth, and slowly pulled out a wad of dollar bills. "It looks like these were shoved down his throat to make a point." The coroner stuffed the bills into the plastic bag that Chriseyda was holding for her.

After another half an hour, the coroner and the body left the scene, followed shortly after by Detectives Mills and Jackson. Both detectives were silent, the case was screwing with both of them and neither liked it very much.

"What do you think?" asked David, sitting down across from Chriseyda. He took a long sip from his mug of coffee.

"I think, like last year, we'll either get extremely lucky or this guy will just finish his killings and slip through his fingers," said Chriseyda, slowly contemplating the situation as she looked at her cup of hot chocolate, decorated with whipped cream and chocolate shavings. "Unless he . . .or she . . . wants to be caught, like John Doe did."

"Okay," said David, counting off with his fingers. "So far he has killed Sloth, Lust, Gluttony, and Greed. That means he is missing Pride, Envy, and Wrath. I'm guessing that we'll find Pride next, and I'm probably going to be the target of Wrath again, simply because this guy will want to do what John Doe failed to do. Envy is the only thing that is a question. I doubt if this guy will say he envies my life, so it is the odd one out."

Chriseyda nodded, taking a sip of her hot chocolate and wiping some of the whipped cream off her nose with a napkin. "I don't know what to think anymore. I feel like this person is just toying with us. Like they purposefully mean to have us bent over and waiting- I hate that feeling. Or, maybe this person is Pride, but that just doesn't make sense. Maybe he or she isn't any of the seven sins, maybe they are just doing it for kicks. Like it's some sort a notch on their belt to be in charge of the situation or something like that.

"It would make sense that way. This person is doing things totally different than John Doe did. Maybe, like you said, they will go for you, and then kill themselves out of pride for completing what John Doe failed to do. Or they will kill you and 'Pride' and then just revel in it and go on living their life. In either case, I think you are right about Pride being next on his list- it only makes sense. If you are the target of Wrath, I'll have your back- and I'm a good shot."

"Thanks," said David. "It looks like we'll just have to wait and see how this thing plays out."

"You think this person might be some evil incarnation of John Doe?" asked Chriseyda, taking another sip of her chocolate- this time avoiding the whipped cream.

"No," said David, wrapping his hands around his mug as he thought about it. "Not an incarnation per se, but whoever it is . . . I don't even want to think about how evil this person is. It could be anyone with . . ." He sat there for a minute, his mouth agape in thought. "I have an idea. Stay here; I'll be right back!"

Chriseyda sat obediently and watched him leave the café. He left her sight- and as much as she wanted to follow him- she sat there, sipping at her hot chocolate, until he came back five minutes later.

"Follow me," was all he said before turning and walking back out of the café. Chriseyda jumped up and followed him out. She had no idea what was going on, but she wasn't going to be a step behind him.

An hour and a half later, a grungy looking man entered the pizza parlor, just another bum who had gotten enough change to buy a piece of pizza. But appearances can be deceiving, especially in New York City. He walked right up to Detectives Mills and Jackson. He handed them a list, without a word, and left.

"What exactly is this?" asked Chriseyda.

"It's a list of who borrows tagged books from the library," said David. "It's what helped us find John Doe in the first place, and it should help us now. But you don't know about this and neither do I, got it?"

"Know about what?" Chriseyda asked as she took one of the pages from him.

They began flipping through the list, looking for anything at all that might help them catch a break.

"I have one," said David. "J. Doe, could be another John or a Jane Doe. Wouldn't that be a situation?" He sounded as shocked as Chriseyda felt.

"Is that it?" asked Chriseyda, not sure if she had heard him right.

"The person who checked out all of the books John Doe did and more," he said. "And there is no home address for the person either. Now isn't that just a wonderful piece of news?"

"So what's our next move?" asked Chriseyda.

"Go to the library, see if any of the librarians remember seeing what this _J. Doe_ looks like- maybe even seeing if they have an address somewhere in their files," said David, shrugging. "What else can we do?"

Chriseyda nodded and followed him from the pizza parlor. They drove to the library and looked around. They walked into the library and noted the coffee shop to the right and the front desk to the left.

"I'll go and check the coffee shop," said Chriseyda. "I'll see if any of them have had contact with a J. Doe. It's a long shot, but who knows- we might get lucky off a long shot."

David nodded and headed to the library. He walked up to the front desk.

"Hello," said the cheerful, blonde teenager behind the desk, wearing a nametag bearing the name 'Kelly'. She batted her heavily made eyes at Mills and, whether out of habit or on purpose, she started twirling her hair. "Can I help you find something?"

"Actually," he said. "I was hoping you could help me find _someone_. A person who has recently borrowed some books on purgatory; they call themselves J. Doe."

"Oh yeah, _her_," said Kelly. She sighed, not seeming happy that they weren't talking about her- but at least it was a conversation. She acted pleased to be needed by him, even if it was just for information on a library patron.

"Her?" asked David, he wanted to claim that it didn't shock him- that he had figured as much- but it shocked him just the same.

"Yeah," she said, batting her heavily made eyes at him again. He ignored it- again. "She comes here quite frequently. She's very quiet and keeps to herself for the most part. I wouldn't remember her, except for the name. I thought it was a funny name, like she wanted to remain anonymous. And the books she always checked out, they were so depressing. I would have thought a girl like her, who had probably never been laid, would get a romance novel every once in a while- but no, just those depressing books about purgatory and Danté and stuff like that. I once tried to suggest some books to her," she just kept rattling on. "But she didn't seem int. . ."

"Can you tell me what she looks like?" he asked, interrupting her.

"Well," said Kelly, obviously a little put out by being interrupted by him. "She had slumped shoulders but I think she'd be pretty tall if she stood straight, blonde hair, dark blue eyes, kind of a defined bump on the top of her nose" she said pointing to the bridge of her nose, "and she wears glasses- not stylish ones either. They look kind of like old lady glasses, but hey- if that's her thing, who am I to judge?"

"Anything else distinguishing about her? Crooked teeth? Does she have a mark on her face? Anything?" Mills was getting frustrated and trying desperately not to show it.

"No," said the woman. "Her teeth were straight, probably dental work- I've never seen anyone with teeth that were naturally that straight. The most noticeable feature was her eyes and she didn't try to play them up. She didn't even wear makeup," she sounded disgusted by this. "I don't know, she might possibly be considered pretty if she got contacts and dressed up a little."

"Would you happen to have her address around here somewhere?" he asked. "It's kind of important that I get in touch with her as soon as possible."

"Are you with the police?" she asked, her eyes widening.

"Yes," he said. "She isn't in trouble, we just have to speak to her about a tip she gave us a few days ago."

"I don't know," she said. She turned and typed something into the computer and then looked back at him. "No, I'm sorry. Her address isn't in the computer, but it might be in our back files. Would you like for me to check?"

"Sure," David nodded.

The girl turned and walked through the door behind her. She returned in a few moments with a self-satisfied smile on her face. "Here it is," she said holding up an index card. She handed it over to him with a proud smile. "Now, you can't keep it, but you can write it down."

David looked at her with a raised eyebrow, but then nodded his compliance and took his pen and a pad of paper from his pocket. He looked down at the address and his heart sank. His bad week just became worse, but he wasn't going to let this girl see it.

"No one has seen anything around here," said Chriseyda as she walked up behind David.

"That's okay," he said turning to face her. "I have the address right here."

Chriseyda's face lit up with that news. She and David turned and nodded their thanks to the young lady at the counter. They walked out of the library and to the car. Just as they got to the car, David's cell phone rang. He answered and was told to get back to the station.

"Where is Jane Doe's house?" Chriseyda asked as David pulled the car into his space outside the station.

David tensed and looked over at her. She could almost see the answer in his eyes. Her mouth went open and she slowly shook her head as if to say '_Please tell me you're kidding_,' but he wasn't.

"She lives in John Doe's former apartment." He knew that he didn't have to say it- she already knew, but he had to verbalize it so that his own mind could grasp it. He didn't want to have to go back to that place, but it couldn't be avoided.

"You're not going there, are you?" asked Chriseyda, echoing what his logical mind was already asking.

"I can't avoid it," he said. "I have to solve this case now. I'm too involved- I can't just walk away. If I have to go- which I do, then I will go. It could mean making or breaking the case." He got out of the car and headed for the station.

Chriseyda nodded slowly. She got out of the car and followed him up the steps. This was not going to be a fun search and she knew that Chief Thompson was not going to be happy about it either.

She was right- he wasn't happy, but he approved the search of the apartment, and both David and Chriseyda were the first officers in the apartment. They knew it would be a long night, and they wanted to start as soon as possible. It was a long and draw out event, which yielded nothing substantial. Chriseyda had ordered that he go home and sleep, and, after arguing about it with her for over an hour, he finally conceded and left.


	5. Thursday

Thursday 

David Mills was awoken at 3:00 the next morning, after less than three hours of sleep, when his phone rang. He was still groggy, after spending most of his night at Jane Doe's apartment- John Doe's former apartment, going through her things- he had every right to be tired. After a few hours of searching, he finally had taken Chriseyda's advice and gone home to get some sleep. They had found nothing, and it had only succeeded in bringing back a lot of bad memories.

He rolled over, still not fully awake, and answered the phone- hoping that it was Chriseyda calling to tell him they found something substantial.

It wasn't Chriseyda.

"Good morning Detective," came a scratchy, synthesized voice. David was wide-awake in seconds. "I've left you yet another gift. You'll find him if you go back to the life you loved." Just as soon as the call had begun it was done. He jumped out of bed and dressed quickly.

On his drive to the station he called Chriseyda. She answered, sounding as tired as he felt, on the third ring. "Detective Jackson."

"Jackson," he said abruptly. "If you're at the station, get outside now, I'll be there in three minutes. If you're home, get to the station now!"

"Okay," said Chriseyda, but he had already hung up. She jumped out of her seat, suddenly wide awake, and ran outside the station. He pulled up in less than three minutes, and she jumped into the passenger's seat. "What's wrong? Did they find another victim?"

"I got a call this morning," said David. "She said I'd find the next victim if I went back to the life I once loved. That means I have to go back to the house I lived in with my wife." After a few moments of silence, he finally spoke his mind. "Why were you at the station so early?"

"I couldn't sleep," she said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "I was looking over everything, trying to find something that we could possibly use, but there's nothing new. I fell asleep about half way through my search. I guess I'm just being optimistic."

"How long have you been a Detective?" asked David.

"Two years," she said looking over at him. "Why?"

"That's the reason for the hopefully, naïve, optimism," said David coolly. "Once you've been on the job for at least five years, you realize optimism is a luxury, at best. You'll learn."

Chriseyda just sighed at the iciness in his voice and nodded. They finished the trip in silence.

David was out of the car as soon as he had turned it off. He ran toward the apartment building with Chriseyda right on his heels. He bounded up three flights of stairs and knocked on the door of apartment number 19. There was no answer, so he kicked in the door.

There was nothing out of place in the living room and dining room. David took a deep, shaky breath as he walked down the short hallway to the bedroom, pulling out his gun as he went. He nudged the door open and pointed the gun around the room. There was a body hanging from the center of the room, with a chair tipped over below him and blood was dripping from his toes. The bed was soaked in blood and the word 'Pride' was written on the wall.

"We've got something," he yelled down the hall to Chriseyda. He walked in, phone in hand as he rang the coroner and police station. "Send a bus; we've got a male DB. Send the coroner immediately."

Chriseyda sucked in a breath as she walked in and surveyed the scene before her. "Pride," she breathed.

"Yeah," said David walking over to the bed. "This woman has a thing for making guys cut off their penises."

"Maybe a hatred of all males?" suggested Chriseyda. "Maybe abused by a male relative as a child."

"Possibly," said David. "Or just a fetish."

Chriseyda shrugged slightly as she looked around and took pictures of the scene.

"You realize what she did to this guy?" asked David.

"If I remember correctly from the old files," said Chriseyda, taking out her camera and taking pictures of the scene. "The initial 'attack' is some sort of disfigurement to the vic. Then, gluing a phone to the one hand and also gives the victim a form of suicide- in this case hanging. The thing she is trying to say is call and save your life- but be without a penis- or kick the chair out from under you and end the misery."

"Very good," said David. "I'm sure that is what she is doing. What is odd is she practically duplicated the scene. Only she chose a man instead of a woman and a different form of suicide."

"What else could she do?" asked Chriseyda. "It's the best way to get the point across."

"Maybe," said David. "That means she might start duplicating the other two sins."

"Wrath and envy," breathed Chriseyda. She was getting frustrated; she didn't like being outsmarted by the bad-guy. "She's going to kill her last two victims and disappear, isn't she?"

"It's starting to look that way," said David.

"What do we do?" she asked. "We can't just sit here and do nothing."

"We'll see if the coroner can get anything off the body," said David. "Until then, we have to wait."

"I've got nothing new off the body," said the coroner looking up at the Detectives. "No hair, no prints, there was nothing on the body. And he died of strangulation- as if it wasn't obvious. However, he was pretty lethargic after she cut his penis off, so I almost think he didn't have the strength to make the call to save his life. That's just a guess, take it with a grain of salt."

"Thanks Doc," said David, pulling out the old case files and handing them to the coroner. "If you find anything out of place compared to last year's murders, let me know."

"Will do," said the coroner. "I'll ask the former coroner to come here for the rest of the day and help. He'll be able to tell if there's anything that I've over looked."

David nodded and left the morgue without another word. He knew Chriseyda was right behind him, but he didn't want to say anything to her.

"I think I need to take a walk and clear my mind," David told Chriseyda before heading for the door. The cool air hit him square in the face, ruffling his hair backwards and making him wish he had grabbed his coat on the way out. He didn't feel like going back to the office so he decided to rough it and walk anyway.

David couldn't remember feeling so terrible since John Doe told him his wife was pregnant. He had to sort out his thoughts before he could talk to anyone about the case. He went outside and walked around the block three times, and then walked across the street to get a good cup of coffee.

Walking back to the station with the cup of coffee in his hand, an idea suddenly hit him. He ran the rest of the way and called the superior still at the apartment. He answered on the second ring.

"Is there a dark room?" David asked, not introducing himself.

"A dark room?" the supervisor sounded confused for a second and then he understood. "Yes Detective," he said, still a bit of puzzlement in his voice. "We just found it an hour ago. We haven't processed it fully yet. There's a lot of pictures in there, both developed and undeveloped."

"Bring all of the pictures to the station once you've logged them all in," David commanded more than requested. "Have them examined closely, and tell the examiners to look for anything and everything that seems out of place, even if it is the minutest detail."

"Yes sir, we'll get right on it," the supervisor said crisply. Just before hanging up, David could hear him snapping orders to his officer that were working the dark room.


	6. Friday

Friday 

"Wake up Jackson!" called David harshly, rushing by Chriseyda's office. She had fallen asleep at her desk the night- or would that be morning?- before. She snapped out of her slumber and blinked a few times to wake herself up. She jumped up and chased him out of the station a few seconds later. "They got a call from the killer," said David, jumping behind the wheel of his car. "She's in the cemetery by **his** grave."

Chriseyda jumped into the passenger's seat and turned on the police radio scanner. "Are you sure it was the killer?"

"Absolutely," said David. He pushed the pedal to the floor and took off toward the cemetery. "The killer herself called. I identified the voice."

Chriseyda held on for dear life as David took the turn into the cemetery tight. It had started raining so the car slid, making it even more dangerous to be driving along so fast. He hit the breaks hard, skidding the car to a stop. He was out and running for the grave, his gun ready.

Chriseyda was behind him enough to watch his back.

David was running toward the grave, he remembered vividly where John Doe had been buried- it was another image that would forever been melded into his memory. There was no one standing by the grave. Just as his tired and confused mind was trying to sort everything out, his phone rang and he stopped to answer it. The flurry of words and explanation came out too quickly for him to catch everything but he caught enough.

Police Chief Thompson had just received word from the librarian. She had recognized Jane Doe and had given a more accurate description. On top of that, they had gone through most of the pictures found at Jane Doe's apartment. The analysts had picked up something in a few of the pictures and when they enhanced them, they found something that changed everything.

Chief Thompson spilled the news to David, leaving him reeling in confusion.

"Say what?" demanded David. He had stopped ten feet away from John Doe's grave.

Thompson was in the middle of repeating his last sentence when it finally sunk into David's mind. He slammed his phone shut, turning to face Chriseyda and raising his gun. He was knocked off his feet as a large piece of board made contact with the side of his face. His feet slipped out from under him in the mud, and he landed face down.

Chriseyda had swung the board as hard as she could. She was pleased with herself that it made a good, square contact with his left temple. He sprawled flat at her feet, face down, gun still in hand. She was standing over him, the board still held firmly in her hands, looking like the warrior goddess Athena- or rather an evil version of the goddess. She kicked his gun away from him, dropped the board in the mud, and pulled her own weapon.

"Well, how the tables have turned," said Chriseyda looking down at him in mock sympathy for his plight. The rain which was now coming down in sheets, making her hair stick to her face and neck, and her mascara smear slightly down her cheeks. "You thought you would just get away with it, didn't you?"

David was writhing in pain at her feet. He turned to look up at her, and the look on his face told her that he had no idea what she was talking about. At least he didn't understand the full extent of it.

"You killed **him** and you thought you would get away with it," she said refreshing his memory, and waving the gun at him in the process. "He was an unarmed civilian!"

"**_He_** was a lunatic!" yelled David angrily, reaching up to feel the gash in the side of his head. Blood caked his hand when he brought it down, and the rain beat down, trying to wash it away. "He was a freaking, insane, lunatic!"

"**_He did what he had to do!_** He brought attention to the sins of this world. He died before his plan could be brought to completion. I knew in my heart I had to finish what he had started. I was already a Detective, so it seemed like a natural step for me to come here to the city. I wanted to make you regret stopping his glorious mission."

"I don't regret killing him," retorted David, blinking back the rain and tears in his eyes. "He killed _my_ wife and child! He deserved to die for what he did to me, and so do you."

"Yes," she said nodding her head. "There are two sins left. Like my predecessor, my sin is the sin of envy. I envied everybody else's life, including yours. Your sin is wrath, it always has been. We will both die here tonight- I guarantee it."

Chriseyda turned slightly as she heard police sirens coming toward the cemetery. The rain pouring down around her- soaking her hair and clothing- was relentless.

"Well, it looks like our time is up," she said simply turning back to face David.

He watched her face; she had the same smug smile that he had seen a year before, only this time the table had indeed been turned against him. He closed his eyes; finally the haunting memories would be erased from his tortured mind. He would be able to rest without nightmares and without fear. He held his breath in anticipation; he wanted to be free of his pain. Silently and without another word, she fired a single round into his head. He dropped instantly.

Chriseyda turned and walked the last ten feet to Doe's grave. She fell to her knees in front of it and put her hand on his small, simple grave marker. The sirens were close now. She could hear the sounds of the police officers running toward her with their guns drawn.

"Well John," she whispered. "It's almost finished. Wrath has been destroyed, just as you had planned. The work you began one year ago is almost completed, and when it is, I will see you again."

"Chriseyda Jackson!" demanded police Chief Thompson from behind her. "Put your hands in the air!"

"I will see you my dear brother," whispered Chriseyda. She had the gun in her right hand pointed at her chest and her left hand on his grave. "I have one request," she yelled out loud to Chief Thompson. "I want to be buried beside my brother. Put Jane Doe on the gravestone."

"Hands in the air!" he yelled again. "Don't make me shoot you!"

"I'll save you the trouble," she yelled back calmly. "I love you John," she whispered and then pulled the trigger on herself, ripping a hole in her chest and splattering blood onto the granite and marble gravestones near her. Her lifeless body slumped over her brother's grave stone, blood pooling in the letters and numbers of the grave marker.

Chief Thompson ran up to her and turned her over. The rain had started falling harder, washing the blood from the gravestones around her limp body. Her lifeless eyes were open, and they still held the traces of a self-satisfied smile in them. _Just like that SOB,_ he thought as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number.

"Bring the coroners wagon," he said. "We have two dead bodies; a murder and a suicide."

He turned his attention back to the two bodies sprawled in the rain, mud, and blood. He shook his head; it shouldn't have ended like this. There were only two words that came to his mind which could fittingly sum up the scene in front of him.

"It's over."

The End


End file.
